


Distractions

by tasteofthebitchpudding



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Oral Sex, Sexual Content, Smut, Teacher-Student Relationship, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-07-29 12:41:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16264412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tasteofthebitchpudding/pseuds/tasteofthebitchpudding
Summary: Christine loses focus easily on the stage, and must work on her composure through all manner of distractions. Fortunately, the angel of music is there to offer a helping hand.





	1. Chapter 1

The angel of music was very strict. This was a fact Christine knew without a doubt, although she could not deny that the results of his instruction were without equal. In the time she had been training with him, her voice had grown into something she scarcely recognized, so full of power of and clarity it was. If dealing with her angel’s...less than orthodox methods of instruction was the price she had to pay, it was a paltry sum.

Christine was no fool, or at least, she was one no longer. She’d learned the truth about the angel months before; learned that he was not a heavenly being sent by her father to instruct her from the great beyond, had learned he was a man. A man! Just a man, a man named Erik, who despite his earthbound reality, shaped her voice with all the skill of the heavens. Even knowing this, knowing what he was--what he wasn’t--Christine still thought he’d been sent to her by divine intervention. How else to explain a man such as he? He was made of music; sound and melody and _feeling_ were evident in his every gesture, in his every word. 

His voice... _oh_ , his voice! Christine could not put into words how Erik’s voice made her feel. It was dark and powerful, and seemed to curl around her like a warm embrace. It made her feel as though she were sinking into a pool of molten heat whenever she was with him, and she was ashamed to admit she’d be happy to drown there. His face...well, his face was yet still a mystery, but it seemed strangely unimportant, not when he shaped her voice so beautifully and made her pulse race with his own. Christine trusted Erik beyond all reason; he made her feel safe and secure, was unfailingly a gentleman, and had turned her voice into something glorious. The unusualness around their methods of meeting and his instruction were worth the results.

Still, the first time he’d placed his hand on her _there_ had been a bit of a shock.

“You are far too easily distracted, my dear. You must learn to focus your voice, and tune all exterior...stimulation out. How else do you expect to triumph on the stage where any number of things could and will go wrong?”

He had come up behind her as he spoke, and she had been unable to keep her eyes from fluttering closed, so that she might soak up the amber honey of his voice without distraction. They were mid-way through her lesson that day, and he’d pointed out how her focus had been less than stellar during that morning’s blocking rehearsal. She hadn’t been able to help it, not really--there had been far too much commotion, what with the lead tenor sniping with the director over his use of a sword in the last scene of act one and the head of the lights hurling angry words at the disgusting man who ran the flies. 

“I know, and I’m sorry angel, but--”

The great mirror in her dressing room was to her back, so she was unable to see just how close Erik actually was, didn’t realize she was close enough to be touched. Christine let out a slight gasp when he pulled her flush to him, breaking off her protestation. He had placed a hand on her ribs, while the other floated near her hip. 

“No excuses, my dear. How do you expect to be a great diva if your voice is so easily distracted, hmm? I want you to breathe into my hand, Christine. Let your lungs inflate across your back. You are to keep your focus. If you allow yourself to be distracted, I shall be displeased.”

She shivered at his words, and the sensation of his breath, hot on the back of her neck. She didn’t like to closely examine the way her angel made her feel sometimes, didn’t like to dwell on the tingling pulses her body experienced after her rehearsals with him, the heat she felt in places that had been previously unexplored. It was far easier to simply obey. She adjusted her posture and prepared to sing. His voice was suddenly right at her ear, his lips nearly grazing the shell of it.

“ _Begin_.”

She began. She breathed into his hand, as instructed, enjoying the firm pressure of it against her side. She concentrated on shaping her vowels, on spinning her tone out across the room, as he’d instructed her, on keeping her diaphragm supported. She was so intent on her technique, she scarcely noticed that he had steadily been gathering up her voluminous skirts with the hand that wasn’t pressed to her ribs. It wasn’t until his long, cool finger found the slit in her bloomers that she was suddenly jolted to awareness, stopping mid-phrase.

“My dear, what did we just discuss?” He tsked in her ear. “From the top, again.”

Heat had flooded her cheeks. She could feel the cool air of the room against her exposed legs, as he had her skirts gathered up and secured under his arm. She said a silent prayer of thanks for having put on her pretty, lace trimmed bloomers and stockings that were in good repair that morning.

“Center you breath, Christine.” His voice was a whisper of velvet against her neck. “From the top.”

“Una voce poco fa,” The aria sat in her lower register, was not truly a piece she would ever perform, but it was a useful way to warm up and work on moving through her lower passaggio.  
She had just come to her first “si Lindoro” when she again felt his finger move at the slit in her bloomers. She tensed, but sang through the distraction. He ghosted over the dark curls there as she came to the run, with only the barest hint of a waver to her tone. When his cool digit made contact with her warm skin, however, her voice hitched.

“Hmm...from the top, I think. Concentrate, Christine.”

It took her a moment to steady herself. She adjusted her posture, and lowered her chin. This time, she was ready for him. His touch against the outside of her woman’s place felt strange--nearly indecent!--but she would not allow it to distract her. Erik would never do anything to harm her, after all. His teaching methods were simply...outside of the ordinary. She couldn’t account for the way her body seemed to buzz in excitement as the tip of his finger teased at her cleft--back and forth, back and forth, with the lightest pressure--or the warmth that suffused her as he gripped her steadily around the ribs, but she felt singularly proud of herself for not allowing it...him to distract her. 

“Si Lindoro mio sará,”

She refocused on her tone, imagining she could see it leaving her mouth and spinning across the room. Her first run on ‘Lindoro’ was approaching again, and Christine steadied her breath in readiness. Rather than the cadenza she was prepared for, the noise that issued from her mouth was instead part moan, part squeak of surprise; for her angel, Erik, had slipped his cool finger into her hot folds at that precise moment.

“My dear, you are truly doing deplorably this evening. I’m quite disappointed in your lack of concentration. Da capo, again.”

By the sixth time he’d made her start the piece anew, she was almost used to the sensation of his finger sliding against her. She couldn’t help notice that with each successive start, the glide of his skin against hers seemed easier...slicker somehow. At one point, he’d touched on something, some hidden spot within her that made her gasp and drop her head back against him as light exploded against her eyes.

“Again, my dear. Let’s see if we can at least make it to the coloratura section this time, hmmm?”

She blushed furiously. They had barely gotten halfway through the aria, and might still be working at it by breakfast the next morning at this rate. This time, though, _this_ time she'd be ready. When he pulled her flush against him, Christine noticed something...strange. There was something hard against the small of her back, something that hadn’t been there before, and Christine had to fight against the urge, the instinct, to push back against it. When she began to sing again, his finger found its way back to that electric spot, and her breath hitched for an instant before she quickly corrected herself and pushed on. She very nearly didn’t make it. His finger stroked against her until it settled into a circular rhythm, and she thought she might liquify in his arms from the feeling. She was close, _so_ close to something, something amazing or dreadful, she wasn't sure which, but she _desperately_ needed to find out. She thought if she finished the aria before she discovered what it was, she’d go mad.

“Once more from the top, Christine. If you can make it through this time, you may have your reward, my dear.”

His voice had lost it’s dark, honeyed tone, she’d noticed. It seemed strained, nearly short of breath. The firm pressure against her back had never gone away once she’d become aware of its presence, and Christine thought she could feel heat pouring through the layers of her dress where it pressed to her. She didn’t know what her reward might be, but this had been the most difficult lesson of her life. She simultaneously wanted to end it and flee from this room, from this heat, from _him_...and extend it indefinitely.

His touch was light against her, lighter than it had been, and she raced through the song. Her voice soared through the coloratura section, tripped easily through the cadenzas. She wasn’t sure when he’d steadily increased the pressure as he stroked her, but she was nearly at the end of the aria, nearly at the blessed end, and she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to make it. Her head had dropped back against his shoulder and he hadn’t even corrected her posture. She felt as though she were riding on the crest of a great wave, a wave that threatened to swallow her up once it crashed over her head, dragging her down to God only knew where, the tempo of which was directed by the speed of his hand against her, a tempo which had increased dramatically, and by God she wanted to drown. Christine couldn’t tell if it was her imagination, or if her angel was caught on the same great wave, but she could have sworn she felt him moving against her, nearly imperceptibly, as though he too were swimming along rhythmically, trying to keep his head above water.

“Prima di cedere farò giocar!”

The last line of the aria erupted from her mouth only moments before the wave crashed over her head, and were it not for his arm locked around her waist, she would have dropped to the floor under the weight of it. Pleasure pulsed through her body, and her vision was replaced by a million little pinpricks of light. She had lost control over her movements, over the hand that had pushed against his, securing it in place, for she felt if he were to move his finger from her before this great wave had finished throbbing through her, she’d expire right there in his arms. 

She certainly had no control over the way her hips rolled, partially against his hand, where she pulsed so deliciously, and partially to move against that rigid something at her back. She could not explain her compulsion to do so, any more than she could explain the sound that came from her throat. High, and breathy, she moaned as though she were dying, when in fact she had never felt more alive! She felt less self conscious about the noise she made when, after a roll of her hips, Erik went rigid behind her, groaning in a way that mirrored her own sound of distress. The pulsing she felt through her body was so intense, she thought she could almost feel it against her back as well.

Like any wave, what crashes to the shore is pulled away again, and eventually the feeling of blind euphoria that gripped her gradually lessened. Vision was restored and the ordinariness of her dressing room, with its little chintz chair and pink pouf were almost a shock to behold in the aftermath of... whatever that had been.

Erik’s breath was a heavy pant in her ear, so unlike anything she’d ever heard from him before. His hand still gripped her midsection tightly, but her skirts had fallen back around her ankles, and the hand that had brought her so much delight, so much distraction, was held aloft, away from her. The firm hardness at her back was gone, although he still held her closely, she noticed. Christine had the feeling that she was holding him up, as much as he was holding her, and they stood, moored together as the great wave of feeling receded.

“I finished,” she murmured, turning her head slightly. Her hand had closed over the bony wrist that still held her, and she thought she felt a shudder ripple through him.  
“I got through the song, Erik.”

His responding dark chuckle liquified her insides. “That you did, my dear. That you did. You sang marvelously today.”

He had released her and as he turned away, he brought the hand he’d stroked her with up to his mouth before his broad back was all she could see of him. She knew she had certainly _not_ sung marvelously, her control was all over the place, but she supposed for it being the first lesson in distractions, she had performed admirably. She felt cold with his arm no longer supporting her, which made next to no sense, as Erik was always seemed to have a chill about him, but the heat that had lived between them, the warmth of what they'd shared, of what he'd done to her...his absence left her feeling empty once his arm was withdrawn. A heaviness descended in the wake of the intense pleasure she'd felt, and Christine suddenly felt dead on her feet.

“Erik, I-I feel quite sleepy all of a sudden, I don’t know what’s come over me...I think I might need to end our lesson and lie down for a bit.”

“Oh, we’re certainly done for the evening. You are...a marvel, my Christine.” 

She allowed him to support her again, and found herself stretched out on the divan in the corner of the room, having done little to get there herself.

“You must rest, my dear.” Her eyes were heavy, but she could still see him there, just hovering over her. “Sleep well, my angel.” His voice was little more than a breath, and Christine watched, through heavily hooded eyes as he leaned down to her. She held her breath, expecting him to kiss her...but when she opened her eyes after a moment of nothing, he was gone. She felt a peculiar emotion that may have been disappointment, but decided she’d not let it ruin the hazy balm that enveloped her after Erik’s...attentions. Before she could give it more thought, sleep claimed her.

.  
.

 

“Christine? Lotte?” 

A sharp rapping on her door made Christine sit bolt upright some time later. The noise had startled her, and she was breathing quite harshly as a result. Her brow furrowed as she tried to place the voice calling her name. 

The Vicomte.

Raoul de Chagny had been a playmate in her childhood, but she hadn’t seen him in years, up until just a few weeks prior, that is. Since then, he’d come by her dressing room several times. The attention had been pleasing at first, had made her blush to think about it...yet she found herself frowning at the intrusion now. Glancing down at herself, Christine noticed at once that her soft shawl had been pulled up to her chin, and her shoes removed.

Erik

Erik would certainly never be ill-mannered enough to be banging on her dressing room door, without regard for what she may be doing on the other side, she thought, blushing at what had transpired in this very room earlier that day. Christine sighed heavily. She thought she might have been having a lovely dream before…the sharp knock came again.

“Christine? Are you there?”

Jamming her feet into her little embroidered slippers, Christine stomped to the door, flinging it open. “Monsieur, what is the meaning of this racket?!”

“Mademoiselle Daaé! I had hoped you’d still be here! I was hoping you might do me the honor of joining me for supper?”

The Vicomte’s blue eyes sparkled. He was very handsome, Christine thought. She supposed she should have been flattered that he was paying her so much attention, grateful even...but women at the opera had questionable enough reputations without being further sullied by the fleeting attentions of aristocrats. He’s just another distraction.

Christine smiled tightly. “I’m sorry, Monsieur le Vicomte, but I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

“But of course it is! You need to change, and I shall fetch my hat.”

She shook her head determindley. “No, I’m sorry...but no. I cannot.”

“But, Christine! --”

“I’m sorry, Raoul. I have rehearsal in the morning, and I need my rest. The angel of music is very strict.”

She closed the door on the sputtering young man and turned away with a small smile. 

The angel of music was strict indeed. She wondered when they might be able to practice that way again. After all, he did have a point! She must be ready for all manner of distractions on the stage, and what better way than to practice her composure than with her angel?


	2. Chapter 2

The shape of the world Christine was accustomed to seemed changed after that day; the boundaries of everything she knew seemed larger. She couldn’t explain _why_ she felt like she suddenly had a purpose in the world, as she walked down the city streets with an extra click in her step. The journey between the little flat she lived in with Mamma and the Opera always made her nervous, even as she walked the same route twice a day, but after that day...the woman she spied in the reflection of windows had color to her cheeks and her nose in the air; she was a far cry from the washed out little mouse she’d been before. 

When she walked into her rehearsal the following morning, she'd kept her chin held high, had sung to the very best of her ability, and above all, had kept her focus. She received complimentary remarks from Monsieur Gabriel that day, and left the stage with a small smile that hid her inner jubilation.

Despite her newfound sense of self, after that first lesson when they had worked on her _composure_ , Erik had been brusque and focused, the angel of music of old. At first, the shift back to what she had come to expect from him was a relief. This was the angel she knew, and any concerns about the propriety of their _lesson_ could be put from her mind...but somehow she never quite able to forget that day entirely. The thought of it was always there, skirting on the edges of her daydreams, and would occasionally rise to the surface of her consciousness, overwhelming her, particularly when she was alone in her bed at night, with heated tingles in the place he’d touched. She’d waited for him to bring up that lesson again but he never did, and after several weeks she began to feel quite insulted! It seemed that he was deliberately avoiding what was a...a... _crucial_ part of her development, and it was...it was...an affront to her _education_! 

Eventually she realized he would not initiate that particular instruction again, and Christine decided she needed to take matters into her own hands. Erik would frequently tell her if she wanted to be a great diva, she’d need to start being more assertive...there certainly seemed like no better place to start than with her own edification. She came to her dressing room for her afternoon lesson one afternoon prepared to direct the course of events that day. When Erik began to complain about the poor performance of the opera chorus in that morning’s rehearsal, Christine cleared her throat nervously.

“Erik, I was wondering...perhaps we might work on my...composure again today? I felt terribly distracted this morning, and with the new performance run coming up, I just thought that perhaps you could...we might...practice _that_ way. Again.”

Erik had grown very still at her words. “That-- _that_ is what you you wish to work on, my dear?”

She nodded hesitantly, feeling her cheeks color. “Only...the same way we practiced last time, Erik?” she clarified. She wanted to avoid him making her do something ridiculous, when all she wished was for him to make her feel wonderful.

He stared at her, and the expression in his flame-colored eyes was unfathomable. Christine felt heat rush up her neck. Perhaps she wasn't meant to ask for lessons like that. After a long moment, Erik seemed to snap out of his contemplation.

“As you wish, my dear. We will follow the same...lesson plan, if that is to your liking. What would you like to sing?”

Christine flushed at his words. _To her liking_. She certainly had liked it, she supposed…

“Something lower?” she asked hopefully. She wanted to not tax herself, wanted to be able to enjoy this particular _educational_ experience. The anticipation that tightened her stomach was simply because she was eager to grow her skill set as a performer, she told herself. _Voi che sapete_ , another aria she’d probably never perform on stage was chosen, and Christine readied herself for both singing and his touch. 

She had come to this lesson prepared. The underskirt she wore was less voluminous than others she owned, the flounces in her bustle were unwired, so that he might press to her tightly. Her corset was already loosened to allow for better lung expansion, and she hoped he’d place his hand at her back again. When she had gone shopping with Mamma two weeks prior, she had kept an eye out for some nicer underpinnings than what she'd currently owned...the new combination she wore now had a lovely broderie anglaise edging, with pretty blue ribbon trim. Mamma Valerius and the woman in the shop had waxed on about the preservation of modesty in the new one piece offerings the boutique sold; Christine had smiled demurely, choosing the prettiest combination she could find, with the widest opening in the gusset.

She had also worn her brand new blue-grey stockings, stockings that were almost silky to the touch. Christine was almost embarrassed to admit the stockings had been purchased with this lesson in mind. They were woven with an interesting pattern, and she imagined Erik would appreciate their smooth texture. Her face had been aflame in the shop as the stockings were shown to her, thinking of his long, elegant fingers gliding down her legs, because craving his touch was certainly _not_ what this was about, that type of behavior was _wanton_ , and this was about her musical enrichment...but the stockings had still come home with her.

“Remember to keep your intercostals engaged, my dear. You don’t have to work as hard for these notes but that’s no excuse to allow your technique to grow sloppy. Breathe into my hand--I want to feel expansion all the way around,”

When he’d placed his hand against her side, she tried to keep herself from shivering. Her skirts were raised slowly as she sang, secured under his arm, as before. The feel of his cool fingertips through the thin material of her combination’s pantalettes made the hair raise on her neck as he gently caressed up her thighs, but she did not waver and his hand moved into the wide opening of her gusset with ease. Even though she was expecting it, was waiting for it, the feel of his fingertip teasing at her heated skin made her trip over her words.

“Da capo, I think.” 

His voice was a low purr in her ear, and she felt heat bloom in the place his hand had nearly reached. _This is for the betterment of my craft, this is a singing exercise_ , she told herself firmly. All of her stern words were forgotten when, as she started the song again, his cool finger sunk into her heat. Christine tipped her head back and moaned as her angel stroked through her already-slick folds. He made a grunting noise behind her, and she realized his finger had continued to move against her for several moments after she’d stopped singing, and another breathy moan slipped past her lips, to her horror.

“Again, my dear,” he said finally, a bit raggedley. 

That foreign hardness had suddenly reappeared at her back, she’d noticed as she steeled herself to begin the song again. It was a kindness that Erik was not being as strict with her as he was during her normal lessons, particularly as she found she didn’t have much interest in singing that day. It would have been much nicer to just rest her head back against his shoulder and enjoy the feeling of his hands on her, but then again she supposed that wouldn't have been terribly instructive.

_Voi che sapete che cosa é amor_

When she began the song again, something was different. Erik still stroked her with a light, rhythmic touch, but he had a second fingertip poised at the entrance of her opening, that hidden place she'd been told since she was a small child should be saved for her husband. 

_E per me nuovo, capir nol so_

The digit that stroked her had begun to circle that electric spot, the other teasing at her entrance, and she’d barely made it past the first stanza when she whimpered in pleasure again. His fingers moved against her with ease that day; she was far slicker than she had been the last time they’d practiced in this way. Christine didn’t know if she should be embarrassed by that or not, but in either case, it certainly seemed to make things feel nicer, she thought, as Erik rumbled for her to start again from the top. The callused pad of his thumb circled the point in her hot folds that made her tingle and pulse, and it was wonderful. She began the song again, willing herself to get through.

_un affetto, pien di desir_

As she sang, Christine wondered if in the future they might end all of their lessons in this fashion. Then, just as she lamented the pageboy Cherubino’s feelings of confused desire, she felt the tip of Erik’s slim digit push into her opening and she gasped at the foreign intrusion.

“My dear, you’re going to need to show much better concentration than that,” his dark, honeyed voice dripped into her ear. The tip of his finger had remained pressed in her, and he continued to move it lightly, back and forth. “It’s alright, Christine,” he said in a gentler tone. “Just relax.”

Christine stood rigid against him for several long moments, moments in which he continued to stimulate her, the tip of his finger still moving within her. She wasn’t sure if it was her inherent need to obey him, or if her body had simply accepted the feel of his intrusion, but she felt her clenched muscles relax infinitesimally. She steadied her breath, and began the aria again. As soon as she was past the first line, his thumb zeroed in on circling that electric spot that gave her so much pleasure. 

Christine was so intent on making at least halfway through the song that she was unaware that she had begun to rock against his hand, that he had begun to rock against her, until his thumb came in direct contact with that tingling part of her and her voice broke off again. His hand never stopped moving against her, and her head fell against his shoulder. He was _definitely_ moving against her, and in the silence of the room, Christine could hear a squelching sound, and was mortified to realize it was the wetness of his hand moving rhythmically against her, that she was still rocking against his fingers, exacerbating the noise. The sound of him moving in her wetness was occasionally punctuated by a high noise from her, or a low grunt from him.

They stopped and started this way twice more, the pretense of her singing growing thinner every time he allowed her to moan breathily without ceasing his ministrations. 

“You’re very close, I think, my dearest,” he panted in her ear. “Finish the song this time and you may have your reward.”

_Very close indeed_ , she thought dizzily. The peach fleur de lis wallpaper of her dressing room was spinning around her; her head swam, and she felt _desperate_ for the release that the great tidal wave of pleasure promised her. She didn’t make it through the song that day. The dual pressure of his rhythmic attentions to that wonderful spot and his finger moving shallowly in and out of her opening caused the great wave to overwhelm her before she was even three quarters of the way through, and shockingly, Erik didn’t seem to mind. He continued to rub circles against her as the wave crashed over her head, and afterwards she would be ashamed at the wanton sounds that issued from her throat. Erik continued to stroke her, she continued to rock into his hand, and he continued to move against her back, until the wave of blinding pleasure had passed and he’d stiffened and groaned behind her. For several long moments, the only sound in the room was their ragged breathing, and Christine sagged against him.

Much like the last time, Christine found herself gently cared for in the aftermath of the lesson. A small needlepoint pillow was placed under her head as she stretched out on the divan Erik led her to, and Christine reclined gladly against its softness. He bent solicitously to remove her little boots, and Christine shivered as his thumb lingered over her delicate ankle bone, stroking the fine material of her stocking. The stockings were a wonderful investment, she thought sleepily, enjoying his gentle touch upon her ankle.

“You must rest, my dear,” he said quietly. Erik’s mellifluous voice wrapped around her like warm cashmere blanket, and her eyes slipped closed obediently. 

“Thank you, Erik,” Christine heard herself murmur sleepily. “That was a lovely lesson.” She yawned hugely, and when her eyelashes fluttered open again, he was gone.

 

The angel of music had never been an ordinary voice instructor, so it stood to reason, Christine thought, that their lessons together should occasionally be extraordinary as well. The unusual method of instruction over her composure would be repeated, several times more, over as many weeks. She would complain of feeling _distracted_ , which had become their unspoken code for the type of lesson she was requesting. Her angel, for his part, never denied her the _instruction_ she sought. 

The third time Christine complained of feeling distracted during her morning rehearsal, he’d barely made her sing at all, stroking her wet heat with an intensity that made her dizzy until she pulsed deliciously against his fingers, bringing on the tidal wave faster than she was prepared for. Each time was lovely, giving her a rosy glow in the cheeks and a light bounce in step after she’d leave her dressing room, once she'd woken from the little nap she’d take after. Erik was always so attentive to her needs at the end of those lessons, she mused, ensuring she was comfortable before quickly taking his leave. It was not unusual for her to find pretty little trinkets left on her dressing table when she would awaken; a beautiful set of tortoise shell hair combs, a little jeweled brooch in the shape of a butterfly, a lovely Venetian lace fan. His care and generosity made her flush, and gave her a warm feeling in her core, a feeling she was not entirely certain was appropriate to have about a man who was not actively courting her. 

_Why couldn’t we court _? she wondered one afternoon, as she stretched out on her divan complacently. She thought she should quite like being married to Erik, if she was completely honest with herself. They would sing and make beautiful music together all of the time; she would keep the house, and Erik would...do whatever it was he did. She knew far too little about him, she mused. She would have to learn where he lived, what his profession was, outside of being her angel, of course.__

__Christine envisioned some tidy little flat, close to the opera, maybe up the street from a sweet smelling boulangerie, or a flower shop, where he would buy her fresh blooms every week. They could take walks in the bois after church on Sundays, and she would have a lovely new parasol for such outings. His face...Erik would have to show her his face, once she was his wife, of course. She thought quietly about the mask for several contemplative moments. She had already come to the conclusion that he must be terribly ugly, to hide his face from her as he did. She recounted a giggling conversation had in the dressing rooms one night after a performance._ _

__“Laugh all you want,” Victoire had said. She was one of the older girls, one of the ballerinas who lived in La Sorelli’s shadow, yet still maintained her own coterie of admirers. The younger girls were poking fun at her latest suitor, a rich but ugly man who was completely besotted with the dark haired beauty. “Learn from your elders, children. An ugly man will treat you like a queen.”_ _

__Erik already treated her like a queen, she thought with a little smile. She would be treated as an empress once they were married, a goddess even! Mamma often talked about her getting married, and the picture she painted with her words was of Christine in a white veil, with some handsome young man waiting for her at the end of the nave, having handsome little children with him in the years to come. Christine would smile and play along with the fantasy, not wanting to break her guardian’s heart with the truth that her her own desire was on the stage, and perhaps with an ugly man who shared her love of music; music that raised her voice and spirit, up to the heavens where her father could hear it. Yes, she thought, she would quite like to be married to Erik. She wondered how to broach such a brazen conversation with him...she resolved to talk to one of the older girls at the next rehearsal._ _

__She stretched again and sighed contentedly. Their lesson that morning had lasted much longer than they typically did, and she had felt rung out by the time he led her to the little divan. When she’d fretted about being terribly distracted that day, Erik had cocked his head and stared at her with a little half smile playing at his thin lips. She imagined his eyebrow was raised under the mask, and she flushed under the weight of his stare. They both knew it was a lie, that in fact Monsieur Gabriel had praised her for being in such good form that morning, as he berated the opera chorus for their sloppy diction._ _

__“Well, that simply won’t do my dear,” Erik crooned, amusement coloring his velvet voice. “We can’t have you discrediting all of our hard work by being _distracted_.”_ _

__For the next hour he made her sing, starting and stopping and starting again, over and over. His touch was maddening that day, as he alternated between quick, light strokes and slow circles around that place in her folds that made her see stars when he touched it just right. He knew precisely what just right was by then, knew exactly how to make her shiver and moan, and wielded that knowledge with precision and skill. That day, he seemed intent on torturing her, bringing her to the crest of that great wave repeatedly, only to let her slide back down again, unfinished, incomplete._ _

__“Da capo, my dear.”_ _

__His voice was a sinuous, silky thing in her ear, and she couldn’t help the way her hips rolled back against him at his tortuous words. When she pressed back, against that ever-present hardness, he’d groaned; the hand that was splayed across her ribs dropped to her hip, holding her in place, and Christine had gasped. She’d begun to suspect, weeks earlier, that what they were doing was _far_ from appropriate, but each time had felt so wonderful, she couldn’t find it in herself to care. His hand on her hip, though, pressing her to him...that was certainly not decent. _ _

__She meant to shake off his grasp, she certainly did _not_ mean to roll her own hips back against him again, but somehow, that was what she’d done. The noise he made when she did so sent a tremor of excitement up her spine, and a lightning bolt of heat to that place he was simply not rubbing _firmly_ enough, and worse was the knowledge that he was _intentionally_ not doing so...her hips rolled back once more, and Christine thought she could get drunk over the sound that came from his throat again._ _

__His fingers, long and elegant--always so elegant, even when they were buried in the hot folds of her womanhood, had begun to move against her in earnest then. Her head had tipped back in relief, as she began to ascend the wave once more. His hand was not the only thing moving earnestly at that point--his palm had stayed on her hip, pressing her firmly to him, and he moved against her with firm, steady thrusts. His fingers, moving rhythmically in the way he knew pleased her best, stuttered in her heat as he suddenly stiffened against her back, groaning long and low into her ear. The sound left her dizzy, and her hand, through no direction of hers, pressed against his, encouraging him to continue his ministrations against her._ _

__“My sweet Christine,” he crooned breathlessly, obediently resuming moving his fingers in tight circles against her until she cried out._ _

__When the wave of pleasure crashed around her, she nearly collapsed under its weight. Not since her very first lesson had she felt this overwhelmed, and she realized, once rational thought had returned to her, as she sagged against him, that this lesson had gone on for a _very_ long time. It also occurred to her that she had not restarted the song. He’d left her on the little divan, as he always did, with another whispered _My sweet Christine_ before taking his leave. Now, finally awake from her nap, feeling comfortable and content, she resolved to question Victoire on how to get a man to propose marriage._ _

__There was a bounce in her step as she walked home from the opera that day, her reticule draped around her wrist, and her hand clutching the stem of the lovely rose that had been on her dressing table when she woke. She paused on the threshold of the little flat after she’d let herself in. She removed her shawl slowly, raising an eyebrow in confusion at the sound of voices._ _

__“I told you already, Monsieur, she is with her good genius!” Christine heard Mamma’s voice speaking of Erik, and her stomach tightened. _Who could be questioning_ …_ _

__“I assure you Madame, that _good_ is the furthest thing he is!” a man’s voice retorted hotly, and Christine felt the blood leave her face._ _

__The Vicomte._ _


	3. Chapter 3

The door to her dressing room shook in its casing as she slammed it shut. Christine flounced across the space, past her little mirrored table, dramatically throwing herself down to the divan. To say that rehearsal that afternoon had been a disaster would have been an exceedingly kind misrepresentation of the truth. She wasn’t sure what she had done to earn the diva’s ire, but La Carlotta had been relentless in her bullying that day, calling Christine a clumsy oaf who sang like a sparrow, making her fall in front of the whole company. She had been quite pleased with the way she was sounding up til that point, and was mortified when she went sprawling across the stage. She didn’t understand why the woman had to be so spiteful! And then to blame Christine for the accident that afternoon... _She’s nothing but a cruel monster_ , she thought, as she squeezed out a few self indulgent tears. How she hated her!

.  
.

In truth it had been a miserable few days, ever since she had come home from her last lesson. The Vicomte de Chagny had been in the sitting room with Mamma, grilling the hapless old woman on Christine’s whereabouts.

“I told you already, Monsieur, she is with her good genius!” Mamma Valerius’ voice was earnest as she implored the young man to listen to her.

“I assure you Madame, that _good_ is the furthest thing he is!”

Christine had entered the flat as the Vicomte disputed Mamma's words, leaving the old woman befuddled and flustered. 

“Hello Mamma!” she’d called innocently as she came up the steps. “Oh! Monsieur le Vicomte! I had no idea we were entertaining guests today! Had you sent word that you’d be calling on us today, monsieur? I would have alerted you that it’s a poor day for receiving company, as I had rehearsal and then my voice lesson this afternoon. I hope you haven’t been too terribly inconvenienced...”

Christine had hoped the Vicomte would have the good grace to be shamefaced at calling on them out of the blue, but luck was not on her side that day.

“Yes, Madame Valerius was just explaining to me that you had your voice lesson after rehearsal today,” he responded through gritted teeth. “As it so happens, I was at the rehearsal this morning. I can’t imagine what type of vocal instruction takes an entire afternoon, seeing as the rehearsal ended hours ago.” 

“Christine dear, is this true, what monsieur says about your angel of music?” Mamma had asked in a worried, shaky voice, as Christine flushed at the Vicomte’s words. “My darling girl, have we left you in the clutches of a charlatan?!”

“No,” she'd answered firmly, leading the old woman gently to the kitchen. “Of course not. And Mamma, we've been through this, he's not an angel, he's a gentleman. A refined gentleman who would never dream of raising his voice to ladies or dropping by unannounced.” The last she said with a pointed look at their visitor, who flushed an embarrassed red. “Why don’t you prepare the tea, Mamma, while I have a word with our _guest_.”

“Where have you been? Who were you with, Christine?” the Vicomte had asked her stiffly, once Mamma had obligingly given them a few moments of privacy.

“I was in my voice lesson,” Christine heard herself retort hotly, in an angry voice she scarcely recognized. “How many different people do you need to hear it from, monsieur? Why do you presume to ask after me as though I were accountable to you?!”

“Because I care for you, Christine...I love you! Or at least I thought I did, before today!”

“Love!” She took a dazed step back and sank unsteadily onto one of the needlepoint chairs in the small parlour. This was not the way she intended her day to go, not at all! It was less than an hour ago that she was contemplating marriage to another man, and here was a handsome aristocrat claiming to love her! 

Christine felt heat crawl up the back of the neck when she considered how long the Vicomte may have been waiting here with Mamma, and the reason for her running so late today. Her lesson with Erik had run long, much longer than normal as he tortured with his maddening touch. It was only when she’d rolled her hips back against the hardness at her back, (a trick that would be useful to remember for the future, she thought) only then did he acquiesce and touch her in the way he knew she desired. It had been a very long lesson indeed. 

“Monsieur, I don’t see how you could possibly love me, you barely know me!” 

It was true that she’d known the Vicomte in her childhood, although she hadn’t seen the man in more than a decade. He'd sought her out at the Opera several times, coming to her dressing room door, but she'd been able to put off his repeated requests to supper. He was a stranger to her, and she to him. They’d been playmates at the seashore, once upon a time, but that was before she’d entered the conservatory, before the professor had gotten sick, before Papa’s illness and death, leaving her alone with Mamma, with naught but grief and dreams. A veritable lifetime ago.

“I do love you, Christine, I always have!”

The Vicomte had sunk to his knee before her, and Christine gave him a long, measured look. He was terribly handsome, she thought guiltily, although the unshed tears that glistened in his wide blue eyes seemed a bit foolish. She was the lady, yet he was the one crying!

His words, however well-intended, struck her as more than a bit naive; the years since Papa’s death had not been easy, after all. Money was often scarce, allowing for few luxuries, like her new underpinnings; she was only able to justify that purchase because her dresses were twice turned at that point. She was just grateful that her meager salary at the opera was keeping them fed. Erik seemed certain she would have a starring role in the next production, but that was yet to be seen. She was not the guileless, wide-eyed girl that she’d once been, and the Vicomte’s proclamation of love fell flat.

“Have you come here to court me then? Is that why you’re here today, Raoul?” she asked skeptically. “You don’t seem like you’re dressed to go walking...did you just expect to visit in the parlour?”

His eyebrows knitted together at her words and Christine gave a little huff of annoyance. 

“Did you bring a present for Mamma? That would have been polite, after all,” she said, thinking of the box of soft English toffees that Erik had left on her dressing table, after her mentioning once that her guardian had a sweet tooth. Christine had been planning on stopping to pick up bread on the way home, and was fretting about not having enough coin in her purse to afford a treat, perhaps a bit of chocolate for the old woman. The fancy box of sweets had been on her table the next day, and his thoughtfulness had brought a tear to her eye, for she never would have been able to afford such a luxury with her small salary.

Her rose. She suddenly remembered the rose she’d been clutching, the rose Erik had left for her on her dressing table. _Such a sweet gesture_ , she thought with another little blush. She had left the rose on the entryway table with her reticule...it would not do to let the Vicomte see it, she supposed.

“That is _not_ why I’m here today,” he said with a flush, seeming to remember why it was he’d been so angry in the first place. “I heard you, Christine. I heard you with a man! Who is he?! You will name him so that I may confront this scoundrel who has sullied your honor!”

She felt her face blanch. _At least you sang today, he made you finish the song_ , she thought. Erik had kept her suspended just at the crest of the wave, not allowing her to tip over, and she’d squeaked and moaned as his elegant fingers had worked their magic against her...but she _had_ sung.

“Where did you hear me, monsieur? In rehearsal? There are quite a few men in the company, after all.”

“No, Christine,” he responded hotly, rising before her. “Outside your dressing room door! I was able to hear into your dressing room, and what I heard, mademoiselle, was certainly no voice lesson!”

“Lurking at my door, were you?” Christine demanded, pushing to her feet angrily. “Peering through the keyhole, monsieur? Were you hoping to catch a glimpse of me in an indelicate state?!”

Truthfully, if he had been able to see in through her keyhole, he would have seen a _most_ indelicate scene, as she pictured herself with Erik’s slim, strong arm wrapped around her middle and her skirts lifted and gathered, as her head lolled back on his shoulder, dizzy with desire. Even thinking about it now made her tingle inappropriately! She flushed at the image in her mind, glad for her anger then. She was so lost in her momentary imagining that she was unprepared for the Vicomte to latch onto her arm, pulling her close as he spoke in a low voice, shaking with anger, and perhaps more tears.

“What I _heard_ , mademoiselle, was the sound of you being had like a back alley harlot,” he spat viciously. “Who is he, Christine? This _Erik_ who has taken advantage of your innocence? I will kill him! ”

Christine gasped in offense, yanking her arm back. _How did he know Erik’s name_? Her head whirled, and she staggered with the force of freeing her arm. She had moaned his name in frustration, she remembered, frustrated that he was _teasing_ her with his long, elegant fingers, rather than delighting her with the firmer pressure he knew she craved. She didn't always have control over the wanton sounds that came from her when she was cresting on that great wave of pleasure...she didn't know how many times she might have cried his name in such a state.

“Monsieur, I don’t know what you think you may have heard, but that filth you’re implying was _not_ it! How dare you!” 

“Your shock betrays you, mademoiselle! I heard you call out your lover’s name as he took you in your dressing room. To think I loved you, Christine! To think I was willing to give my name to some tart from the Opera!”

The shock she might have felt over the Vicomte accurately knowing her angel’s name withered in the wake of her fury. Christine felt several years of repressed anger bubbling to the surface and boiling over in a scalding heat that reddened her cheeks. Anger over the circumstances fate had dealt her since Pappa’s death. Anger over the unfairness over the favoritism at the opera, where it seemed one had to know somebody or be willing to spend time one’s knees to move ahead. It was only because of Erik’s tutelage that she had finally been noticed, had been moved to small roles, otherwise she’d be invisible in the chorus forever. Most of all, the seething anger over the way the girls at the Opera were treated as little more than meat, there to be ogled by the wealthy patrons, like the Vicomte and his brother. Some of the little dancers were scarcely more than children, but all were expected to know their place, and Christine knew she'd be sacked if the managers ever learned she'd refused supper with a wealthy patron. 

“How dare you,” she repeated with a fiery fury that rose through her. “How dare you come into my home, upset my poor guardian, and make demands as though you were my husband! Well, I have no husband, monsieur, and my father is dead. The only person I owe accountability to is myself. ”

Christine turned away, breathing hard. How had this day gone so wrong, when it had such a lovely start? When the Vicomte began to speak again, she whirled back to him, cutting him off.

“What exactly were you doing at the _rehearsal_ this morning, monsieur? Come to join the chorus? Or there to ogle the ballerinas as they stretch with the rest of your kind? Best not eye La Sorelli too closely, monsieur, I hear she’s accounted for!”

The Vicomte’s gasp was gratifying to her ears, and he sunk to his knee again before her. His eyes were once again filled with tears, she noted ruefully.

“Christine, I am an honorable man! I came hoping to have a glimpse, a word with _you_! Do not confuse my brother’s actions for my own, I beg you.” 

She took a steadying breath, unsure how she managed to have him back on knees, gazing up imploringly at her when only moments ago he was calling her a tart and a harlot, but it was a fortuitous reversal.

“Then you will have to prove that to me, monsieur,” she said, as haughtily as she was able. “For now though, I must ask that you take your leave. As I said earlier, it is not a good day for entertaining guests.”

Leave he did, quiet and cowed, much to Christine’s relief. She sagged against the door after his departure, feeling exhausted. She was quite certain this was not the last time the Vicomte de Chagny would put himself in the path of her and her heart’s desires.  
.  
.

The fingers that glided up her thigh were cool against her skin, cool enough that she felt their chill through the thin material of her pantalettes. She didn’t know how they could be so cold, when they incited such warmth in her. They had already moved up her calves, stroking the fine, silky line of her stockings, pausing to circle the tender skin behind her knees. She shivered when they danced over her thighs, and when her legs parted for him, she let out a hitching breath. The cool, elegant finger caressed the soft skin of her inner thighs, ghosting over her soft combination until they found the opening they sought, and she heard herself give a little cry of breathless anticipation. When his hand moved into the opening in the fabric, Christine let her head drop back onto the firm plane of his broad chest with a shuddering gasp. Back and forth, back and forth, he teasingly stroked at her cleft with a feather light touch, barely grazing her skin, but it was enough to send a flood of warmth and wetness to her core and she whimpered with need. Need for his touch, need for him. When he finally, finally slipped that cool digit into her hot center, she was unable to prevent the high moan that crossed her lips, nor the way she rolled her hips into his hand.

_My sweet Christine, my sweet Christine_

His dark voice was like a whorl of smoke around her ear, and she heard her own voice cry out again as the pressure of his fingers became more insistent against her, moving in her slick folds, circling that little pearl of pleasure tighter and faster until her back arched and she was crying out his name, only his name, as she shook apart. She had become a being made of pure light in his arms, blind and deaf as pleasure wracked her body; nothing existed except for his arm around her and his voice curling in her ear, still calling her his sweet Christine.

The tidal wave of sensation receded slowly and a new voice spoke to her now, angry and accusing.

_Nothing but a back alley harlot, some tart from the Opera_

She gasped, lurching to a sitting position, her heart thumping wildly. She was in her bed; her little bed in the little flat she shared with Mamma, tangled in her sweat soaked sheets. There was a dampness between her thighs and a slickness on her fingers, she realized with embarrassed horror.

It had been a dream, she realized. A horrible, _wonderful_ dream. _Erik_. She had called out his name as she touched herself, thinking of _his_ touch. Dropping back to her pillow, she drifted back into an uneasy sleep, wondering if the horrible words Raoul had spoken to her were true.

.  
.

She was proven right about her premonition that the Vicomte would not go away easily the very next day, as there was an enthusiastic knock at her dressing room mere moments after she'd closed herself within. It was a most unwelcome intrusion. Christine was already having a difficult day, and she didn't wish to rehash the previous afternoon's argument so soon. 

There had been a note slipped under the door that morning, which she'd shoved it into her reticule as she'd hurried out of the flat, already running late and she'd made the grave mistake of opening the note during a break in rehearsal. The missive was from the druggist, to whom she still owed money, from when Mamma had taken ill a few months prior. The tinctures had helped ease the old woman's symptoms, allowing her to recover, but Christine had yet to he able to afford the bill, and apparently the man's patience with her had reached its end. If her angel appeared before her to complain about her terrible focus that day, he wouldn't have been in error.

“Monsieur le Vicomte,” she greeted unenthusiastically, feeling the stone that had settled in her stomach since she’d read the letter turn. 

She supposed it could have gone worse. He apologized for calling on her at home unannounced, nervously clutching his hat, and her smile had been soft as he stammered through his apology. He was a sweet man, truly. She wondered if things might have been different somehow...but no, that was silly. She was meant for a life on the stage, not as a Vicomtesse.

His jaw tensed as she gently turned him down.

“I'm sorry monsieur, but I cannot today. I’ve been ordered to see the wardrobe mistress, and then I have several important errands to run before I return home...another times, perhaps?”

She’d added the last part as a way to soften the blow, not expecting the way the hair on her neck suddenly stood on end. She had the oddest sensation that someone was right behind her, listening to her words. In any case, it had a desirous affect on the young Vicomte, as his tremulous smile returned.

“Yes, another day then. I shall call on you soon, mademoiselle.”

When the door had clicked shut, Christine had whirled around, expecting to find someone there, waiting. Her dressing room was as empty as it had been when she’d first come in, although it seemed a bit colder to her arms. She felt oddly unsettled by the experience, and a touch disappointed that it was not Erik there waiting for her. _Although he certainly wouldn't have liked you talking to the Vicomte_ , she thought guiltily. No, he wouldn’t have liked that at all. Her angel was, after all, very strict. _What if it was him and he heard your conversation? What if he’s angry with you, and that’s why he left_? Her heart clenched as she sunk to the chair at her dressing table. She couldn’t bear Erik being upset with her, on top of everything else.

.  
.

The next morning, Christine was determined to start the new day off better. She rose early, taking extra care with her appearance; she wore her pretty blue dress with the lace cuffs and her new combination. She smiled as she donned the silky-soft stockings, remembering the way Erik had gently stroked her ankle the last time she’d worn them. Her curls were tamed, she pinched her cheeks until they had a bit of color, and had a small hunk of crusty bread with her tea before she left home. She had enough coin to pay her outstanding bill on her way home; it would leave with little until the end of the month, but she could make due. 

It was going to be a good day.

As soon as she entered the rehearsal space that morning, Christine felt the tension in the room, a large part of it seemingly directed at her, and she knew her hopeful assessment of today’s fortune was wrong.

“Ah, here’s our little ingenue,” La Carlotta trilled mockingly as she took her place. 

She felt her neck color, but kept her head down. It was just the start of the diva’s verbal assault, which continued, unendingly, until the company broke for a brief lunch. When the rehearsal resumed, this time on the stage for a blocking run through, she found herself sprawled on the floor, a painful splinter embedding itself in her palm. The diva had tripped her, and laughed cruelly as Christine felt her eyes water.

“Clumsy little oaf doesn’t even belong on the stage, yet she thinks she can replace me?!” 

The accident happened two scenes later, during the act two aria. La Carlotta stood in center stage, arguing over the direction she was being given. The chorus was dispersed in the wings, having already been shouted at by the Opera’s leading lady for being a _distraction_ , leaving her alone on the stage when the batten dropped. The screams of everyone in the theater echoed through the hall, although none were as loud or shrill as the diva who was nearly crushed under the weight, for if La Calotta had taken just a single step backwards, she would have directly in the path of the errant beam.

While the director shouted for the flymaster, Carlotta screamed shrilly at Christine, in between her heaving sobs. Christine had no idea why the diva thought it was her fault the rigging had come loose, nor why Carlotta was shrieking ‘puta del fantasma’ at her, but she was relieved when Monsieur Gabriel called a hasty end to rehearsal, demanding that the company clear out immediately so the fly crew could investigate the accident.

Now, weeping in a heap on her divan, her hand throbbing, Christine contemplated how she would ever go back onto the stage with her chin held high. _It’s true, I am a worthless little mouse_ , she thought miserably.

“My dear, please dry your eyes, I cannot bear to see you cry.”

Erik’s dark voice moved through her like a shade, and she shuddered in its wake. “Come now,” he said gently, suddenly crouched there beside her. “That odious woman shall have her comeuppance, I assure you. She’s certainly not worth these tears.”

As he spoke, he raised a hand to her cheek to brush away a tear, but hesitated, his pale hand hovering mere inches from her skin. Christine felt her breath catch in her throat, anticipating his cool touch, before he seemed to change his mind, dropping the hand back to his lap.

The aborted touch undid her, was the last indignity she could take that week and she dissolved into shuddering tears, dropping her head to his shoulder before she could stop herself. She felt Erik stiffen beneath her, which only made her cry more noisily.  
After a few moments she felt the gentle pressure of his fingertips stroking her back; it was the slightest pressure, but it comforted her all the same. 

“My sweet Christine,” he crooned in a low voice, and his words, the same words he said with such love in her dream, almost broke her. _Why couldn’t he see how she felt_?! She worried that she would be stuck in this rut forever, always unfulfilled and alone. Her tears slowed at length, although Erik continued to hold her gently for several minutes longer, and she shivered when she was finally released.

“You sounded very strong at the start of this morning’s rehearsal, my dear. We shall discuss the rest on another day, I think. Now...let me see that hand.”

Once her hand was carefully tended to and wrapped in a length of clean white gauze, Erik rose to his feet. Christine thought again of how nice it was to have someone care for her so devotedly, and how desperately she wanted him to stop being blind to her feelings.

“You’ve had a very trying afternoon, my dear. I think it best if you go straight home and get some rest. You need to sound your very best for the opening, Christine. All of Paris shall witness your triumph.”

“Do you not think we should have a lesson today, Erik?” It was not a normal lesson day, she knew. She was being presumptuous that he had the time to devote to her, had no idea what he meant by her ‘triumph’, but a _singing_ lesson was not what she desperately needed at that moment. It _had_ been a very trying afternoon, it had been a trying _week_! ...there was only one thing she could think of that might ease her troubled mind.

“My dear, I don’t think--”

“I feel very distracted, Erik.” She cut him off in a wavering voice. “Very, _very_ distracted.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was honest-to-God meant to be a three shot smut piece for Kinktober, I swear it. Wellll...this chapter turned out longer than expected, so the three-shot becomes a five-shot. Sorry!

Erik was very quiet for a moment after she’d interrupted him, quiet and considering. His head was cocked curiously, although the expression in his honey-colored eyes was inscrutable. Christine tightened her grip on the skirt of her dress with her good hand, feeling utterly exposed as he examined her in silence.

“And what would you like to sing, my dear?” he asked finally, in a measured, innocent tone, and Christine couldn’t help but feel as though she was being baited. There was something in his voice, something that seemed almost to be mocking her and her little game of distractions, and she felt her chest spasm.

“N-nothing. No singing today.” 

Her voice had a tremor to it and her cheeks colored. He could not mock her today without her falling apart, she was sure of it, and felt tears prick at her eyes at the thought of Erik being cruel to her. Suddenly he was right there, his arm around her back, his voice crooning in her ear.

“No singing? Christine does not wish to sing at all? She only wants her Erik to give her pleasure?”

That was it then, she thought. No more pretending.

“Y-yes,” she stammered miserably, blushing at her stuttering, at how the simple little word seemed to get stuck in her mouth, fighting to stay in the private security of her mind. Christine twisted herself further into his embrace, to put distance between herself and her shameful admission, which seemed to hang there, suspended in the warm peach glow of the room.

“Yes... _what_ , my dear?”

“Yes, that’s all I want. No singing. Just…”

“ _Just_ …” 

Erik's voice, barely a whisper, echoed hers in waiting, and Christine felt a tug in her womanhood at the velvet curl of it, eclipsing her embarrassment over being made to give voice to her shameful desires. It was as though his voice alone was touching her, slipping into the hidden place between her thighs that was meant for her husband...well, she thought ruefully, she _did_ want to marry him, after all…

“For you...m-my Erik...to give me pleasure,” she echoed his use of the possessive with another flush, and Christine wondered if it might be possible for her ears to start whistling like a tea kettle for as hot as her cheeks felt.

The arm around her tightened and she felt a tremor run through his body, and oh, but he _liked_ that. His response was enough to embolden her to fist a hand in the fine material of his coat, lest he pull from her. She needn't have worried, for his arm stayed locked around her, and when he spoke again, his voice was a sleek, sibilant curl around her ear. 

“Say that again, my dear.”

Eve, too fell to a sweet-voice serpent, Christine remembered, and wondered if this moment was her Eden. Erik’s lips were a feather touch away from the shell of her ear, if she took a deep enough breath or turned just so they would be kissing her skin. Warmth suffused her face when she felt a surge of heat and hardness against her hip where their bodies were pressed, and she gasped in a staggering breath as her head swam with the fraction of power she possessed in that instant.

“ _My_ Erik,” she whispered, for she felt certain that was the part he wished to hear her repeat, and judging from the little groan he gave into her hair, pulling her flush against him, she was right. 

“ _My sweet Christine_.” 

His voice draped over her like a gossamer veil and her head tipped back at the sensation, not caring if this was her fall from grace, as she found herself being half led, half carried back to her little divan. 

“Christine is far too sweet and innocent to know how much Erik wants to give her pleasure, in how many different ways...he would be a dog at her feet for the rest of his days if she would allow it.”

She was about to protest his words, that she did not want him as a dog at her feet, but as a husband by her side! That she surely couldn’t be considered an innocent anymore, not when she’d practically begged for _this_...although, Christine considered, she was now sitting on her divan, which was _not_ what she’d wanted, and she realized she had no idea what he meant to do. Her cheeks colored again when she recounted his words. 

_In how many different ways_ …

She jumped when his hands alighted on her shoulders, not even realizing he had moved behind her. 

“Shhh, steady, my dearest. It’s been a very trying day, let Erik take care of you…”

It _had_ been a trying day, Christine thought miserably, nodding her head in agreement. His long, elegant fingers smoothed down her hair several times, gathering and spreading it over the back of the divan, and she gave a little sigh at the pleasant sensation, allowing her eyes to slip shut...and was therefore surprised when the blindfold was brought around her face, and she jumped again. 

“It’s alright, Christine,” he said in a gentle voice, his fingers continuing to stroke her hair soothingly. “This is necessary, I fear. Just lie back…”

His voice curled around her again and she found herself obeying him, as she always did. Erik would never harm her, after all. This was just a piece of cloth, there was nothing to panic over…

There was a soft rustle, and Christine struggled to orient herself when she suddenly felt Erik kneeling at her feet, gently lifting one of her little boots before removing it slowly. He held her stockinged foot for a moment, moving his thumb over the curve of her arch, paying homage to each of her toes before moving up to her ankle. With her vision gone, every sensation seemed heightened, and she shivered, the tiny hairs on her neck standing on end. 

Christine couldn’t help the way she gasped at the soft sensation of him stroking her foot, couldn’t prevent her little sigh when she felt his fingers gliding up the smoothness of her stockings to her ankle, remembering the thoughts she’d entertained when purchasing them. She was lost in pure sensation and was thus able to feel very clearly when the warmth of his breath seeped through the material as he placed a soft, reverent kiss to her ankle bone, and she felt a tremor move through her as her foot was released and the actions repeated on her other side. Back and forth he went, stroking up her calves and the delicate ribbon trim of her combination, teasing the soft skin behind her knees, where she learned, with a squeak, that she was unexpectedly ticklish. It was so much like her dream, that Christine expected to be woken by Mamma at any moment, to find herself gasping in her bed, alone. His fingers continued to climb, worshiping her skin, until he reached her thighs, when he paused. 

“My Christine,” his voice purred up at her. “My dearest, let your Erik give you pleasure.”

She had no idea what he wanted her to do, what he was _waiting_ for, so she did the only thing she could think to do. She begged.  
“ _Please_ , Erik,” she heard herself whine into the space between them. 

Her breathing seemed to stutter and stop when he pulled her legs apart, sliding his fingertips over the smooth white fabric of her combination. The air in the room was cool against her heated skin as the fabric at the opening pulled apart, and Christine let out a little whimper in need as his fingertip ghosted over her cleft. She scarcely realized she’d reached out for him until his cold hand locked around her wrist. Erik’s touch was gentle, but the pressure was firm and unyielding as he led her hand back to her side.

“My dear, I don’t wish to bind your wrists, but I shall if you cannot keep your hands to yourself.”

Her only response was to tip her head back and sigh as his hand once again moved into the opening between her thighs. “My beautiful Christine,’ he breathed reverently moving his palms over her inner thighs as he spread her further.

Christine felt heat burn to the top of her head, for this was far different than the two of them standing upright as she sang, with the benefit of distance and voluminous fabric buffering the intimacy of...whatever that was. _This_ , though...the cool air against her skin made gooseflesh raise on her arms, so exposed she was, with Erik right there. Christine squeezed the small needlepoint pillow under her arm and attempted to control her breathing. She decided to keep her head back and and try to enjoy herself; it didn’t matter if she couldn’t see and was forbidden from moving her hands. 

She heard a slight rustle of something being shifted at her feet as she moved her shoulders slightly, nestling her head into a crook in the divan’s upholstery. This was very nice so far, she reminded herself. Her skin still tingled from where Erik had caressed her legs, her hand had stopped throbbing so terribly after he’d cleaned and bound it, and he was about to touch her in a way that made her body sing. There was nothing to be worried over.

Her dressing room seemed to have a bit of a draft in it today, causing a cooler air that she was able to feel on her exposed thighs, so it was almost a relief when she was heated by...warmer air?...warm _breath _? She gasped when she felt his lips at the crease of her inner thigh, kissing her softly, was about to protest whatever it was he was planning on doing, when whatever words she’d been forming died in her throat, being delivered prematurely as a shrill cry. Her back abruptly arched as though lightning had stuck her body, for something hot and wet and unquestionably Erik’s tongue had pressed into her folds in a long, slow lick.__

__Christine had thought herself, in the past few months at least, a worldly woman. When ladies in the chorus would begin their gossip about their husbands and lovers, or when the dancers would compare notes on their patrons, she had said nothing, listened closely, and felt the warmth of a small, flickering flame inside of her, content in her own secret knowledge that she too knew how good a man’s fingers could feel; of how lucky she was that she had even experienced the kind of pleasure she’d felt in her lessons on distractions, as it often didn’t seem to be the case for some of the ladies who laughed bawdily._ _

__She knew now that she was a child still, an innocent, ignorant little fool who had played at having the knowledge of a woman, for nothing, nothing could have prepared her for the sensation of Erik’s tongue lapping at her slick folds, and Christine gasped at the foreign, wonderful sensation of it._ _

_This is indecent_ , a distant corner of her mind screamed frantically, as her back arched again. _This is indecent and he needs to stop, you must tell him to stop right now_! She had been about to stop him, she was _certain_ she was, but at the moment the protestation had begun to form on her lips, he’d pushed his tongue into her opening, that secret spot she was meant to guard, where she’d shamefully already allowed him to touch her, and all thoughts of protestations flew from her head as she gasped. 

__When his tongue moved and came to rest on that little pearl, that electric spot he knew how to tease so masterfully, Christine tipped her head back and moaned without restraint; her entire body seemed to thrum with electricity as a quivering, pulsing current spread through her--a current which originated from that little nub that Erik was was flicking his tongue against, much in the same way he teased it with his fingers during her lessons. Christine gripped the edge of her little needlepoint pillow, desperately needing to hold onto something, to hold on for dear life._ _

__As his tongue moved against that little bud of nerves, worrying it back and forth, she’d forgotten again to make him stop, to tell him this wasn’t right, she realized. When she felt his thin lips pucker around it and suck gently, Christine decided she’d rather face damnation than to ask him to stop, as she again moaned wantonly._ _

__Erik had removed his mask, she was sure of it, as she didn’t feel the ridge of it bumping her, as it had when he’d kissed her ankle. The knowledge that he’d removed the mask in her presence filled her with warmth, even in the midst of these crashing waves of desire, and a foreign emotion that tugged at her stomach...until she remembered that he’d blindfolded her to do so. _Another time_ , she told herself as he suckled that sensitive nub of nerves again, making her cry out. They could discuss his mask another time, when she wasn’t lost in the throes of pure pleasure._ _

__Christine felt herself begin to spasm, felt her thighs begin to tremble as he kept up the onslaught of his tongue against her. She was caught on the crest of that great wave, seeing nothing but blissful water for miles, yet unable to crash into it. She didn’t know if she shifted her hips slightly then or if Erik had changed the angle of his head, but all of a sudden, light exploded behind her eyes and her entire body spasmed as he touched on the perfect marriage of suction and pressure and Christine was certain she’d die if he moved from that spot. Erik seemed like he was about to shift, to move his tongue away, and she was unable to control her good hand from clamping down on his shoulder, holding him in place._ _

__“Right there, Erik, please don’t move, please, _please_ don’t stop!”_ _

__He did not stop, although he did freeze under her palm. After a moment, he untensed slightly, and Christine felt his his own hand cover hers, preventing it from moving. He continued to work his tongue against her, sucking in the same rhythm in which her thighs were spasming, and she scarcely recognized her own voice as her panting keens filled the air. The pressure behind her navel continued to tighten until finally the cord snapped, and she was vaulted to the stars. Christine felt herself shake apart, heard her voice crying out again and again, felt herself shatter into a million little pieces around him. Her spine seemed to ripple with the force of her release, and just when she thought the tremors had slowed, she felt her womanhood pulsing against the wet heat of his tongue, still moving against her, and died all over again._ _

__When it was finally over, she was scarcely able to breathe. She was utterly boneless, a puddle of herself, unable to think or move or speak, and it was almost a relief when she felt her shawl being drawn up to her chin. She didn’t know what she’d say to him even if she had the ability to form words just then, she only knew that line had been profoundly crossed, and nothing would ever be the same again._ _


	5. Chapter 5

When Christine awoke, Erik was sitting in the little upholstered chair in the corner, watching her. The blindfold was gone, her skirts were righted around her ankles, and her hair was neatly plaited behind her. She didn’t know how long she’d been asleep, nor how long he’d been there, but his posture was relaxed, or at least as relaxed as she’d ever seen him. He’d changed his suit, she saw, and even his manner of dress seemed a touch less formal to her eye. Christine felt her cheeks redden, and she had the absurd little thought that this was what it might be like to awaken as his wife. 

“You are a vision of loveliness even in slumber, my dear.” 

His voice, too seemed changed, she thought. Erik had always been gentle with her, even when he was her angel--commanding, yes, firm in his instruction, but never cold, never cruel...there was a new note of tenderness in his voice now, and Christine felt warmed by the security she felt curl around her in his dulcet tone.

“I want you to go straight home and rest, my Christine. Tomorrow shall be a draining day for you, and I want you to sound your best.”

She sat up slowly, mindful of her hand, and reached for her boots. In an instant, Erik was there, on bended knee assisting her.

“You are feeling...better, my dear? Your Erik has not…”

He trailed off uncharacteristically, and she felt her heart give a squeeze. The tips of his ears had turned pink, she noted with a small smile.

“I feel lovely,” she reassured him gently. “My Erik has taken wonderful care of me today.” 

He busied himself with inspecting the dressing on her hand, unable to meet her eye, although his pink-tipped ears deepened to crimson. 

“...And I shall go straight home and rest, after my errands.”

He looked up then and frowned. “You will go straight home from here, Christine. I shall have a carriage waiting at the side of the building to take you home this evening, and one to bring you back tomorrow. I don’t want you walking all over town tiring yourself out.”

Her cheeks colored in embarrassment over the note in her reticule.  
“I-I cannot, Erik. I have an outstanding bill that must be dealt with this afternoon. Otherwise, if Mamma gets sick again I won’t be able to--”

“Give it to me,” he cut her off. He was back to her angel of old, his voice firm and uncompromising, rising to his feet.

Christine occasionally forgot just how tall he was, how Erik sometimes seemed to fill the little peach room with his presence. This was one of those times, and Christine found herself quite unable to take a breath all of a sudden. He had seemed so much smaller on his knees, just a moment ago. _A moment ago, and on his knees earlier_ , she thought with a blush, wondering if they pained him. Erik was always so intent on treating her like a queen, she'd scarcely thought about returning the favor...a good wife would make him sit at the end of the day and rest his overworked limbs and feet, would rub the pain from his joints. _Soon_ , she thought happily. 

Christine rose quickly, crossing to where her reticule sat on her dressing table. She handed him the note with a slight tremor to her hand, worried at what he might think at how overdue it was, but needn’t have worried, for as soon as it was in his hand, the note was secreted away to a pocket inside his coat.

“There. Now Christine has no more excuses,” he said firmly.

“Actually,” she began with a nervous little laugh, “I still need to stop...there is no bread at home, and I shall need to make Mamma something for supper…”

As she trailed off, Erik blew a frustrated breath through his teeth and rolled his eyes at her continued excuses as to why she could not go directly home. _He rolled his eyes at me_! It seemed so normal a gesture, so unlike _Erik_ ; the entire conversation was so mundane...the type of harmless little bickering a husband might undertake with his wife. Christine beamed up at him, and he narrowed his eyes suspiciously at her reaction.

“You are to go home straightaway and rest, Christine, and that is _final_. You shall meet me at the side door on the Rue Scribe in fifteen minutes, and I’ll hear _no more_ arguments to the contrary.”

When she arrived at the appointed meeting spot, as promised, a brougham was waiting for her. The gloom of evening was already descending on the city, and Christine shivered. Truthfully, she’d be glad not to stop. Erik stepped out of the dark shadow of the building just as she had begun to turn her head to search for a sign of him.

“You are to come to me for any remedies you need in the future before you go back to that mountebank druggist,” he muttered, putting a heavy, covered basket over her arm once he’d assisted her into the carriage.

“Straight home!” he reminded her and she laughed at his tone, laughed because it felt _nice_ to be able to laugh with this strange, enigmatic man who took better care of her than anyone had since both of her parents were still alive, although she wished he were going with her, coming to make known his intentions to marry her to Mamma. 

Christine’s laugh caught in her throat once he went to draw his hand away and she clung to it for a moment. Her gloved thumb, acting on its own accord, moved softly across his knobby knuckles, still clearly felt even through the thin kidskin that encased them. A shiver rippled up Erik’s arm at her touch, and she was left to wonder how else he might react, if she touched him as softly as he’d done to her.

“...à demain, my Christine,” he murmured, ghosting his lips across her the back of her hand, not quite touching, before releasing her and stepping back to the shadows. 

Once the carriage had pulled away, she inspected the over-laden basket. She could smell the bread before she drew back the cloth that covered it. Crusty and white, still warm---nothing like the coarse brown bread that was sold in the shop near her flat. The bread was wrapped in a linen cloth alongside a bottle of wine, a good-sized wedge of hard cheese, the type of charcuterie she’d only had in restaurants and certainly couldn't afford herself to purchase, several gleaming apples...and folded at the bottom, more franc notes than Christine had ever seen in one place in her life. 

She gasped, nearly upending the basket as her hand instinctively moved to cover her mouth. There was a small note, written in Erik’s spindly, spidery hand. 

_Household expenses_

There was enough money enclosed to run a grand house for several months, for her little flat it would last the year, if she spent lavishly. She could buy Mamma a new warmer dressing gown, and not have to worry about skimping on coal come winter...her eyes filled with tears at Erik’s generosity, and her arm tightened around the basket. 

She had no intention of living in her little flat come winter. She would be living with her husband. She’d have some of the girls from the Opera company over for tea; Victoire, and Celine from the chorus, maybe that little Giry girl...Mamma would be installed in a nicely-appointed suite where she’d be comfortable and cared for, and Erik and Christine would still have their privacy. They would have a lovely music room, where he would play for her, and they would sing together. Erik would still work with her on her voice, and they could still have their lessons on _distractions_ in the privacy of their own home…

Tomorrow, she resolved. They would discuss their future tomorrow.

.  
.

After promising herself they’d discuss their relationship tomorrow, when the carriage had deposited her and her basket of treasures at the flat, she did not have the opportunity to see Erik when tomorrow at last arrived. The brougham was waiting outside her flat to take her back to the opera in the morning, eliciting a raised eyebrow from the old spinster next door as she swept the steps, watching as Christine entered the carriage with a small smile. 

She would find herself glad for the extra rest Erik had insisted upon, for as soon as she entered the Opera, Christine was swept into the hysteria that gripped the production. Hours and hours later, she sat in her dressing room, staring into the little mirror on her table in nervous apprehension. The face that stared back was one she scarcely recognized; her lips were rouged crimson, her eyes dramatically lined in black, and her tumble of golden curls twisted and pinned atop her head, as her dresser secured the elaborate headpiece she would wear in the first act. 

La Carlotta would not be performing, claiming illness, and Christine was to take her place.

There were whispers, of course; whispers that the great diva had some calamity befall her the previous evening, courtesy of the Opera Ghost; that Christine had been hand-selected by the spectral tyrant, but Christine was not as credulous as all that, and certainly wasn’t the beneficiary of any supernatural advancement. Her vocal ascension was courtesy of her lessons with her angel of music, and her own hard work. 

She’d gripped the sides of her table in terror after the dresser had left her to wait for her stage call, and Erik had appeared at her side, calming her spiraling panic, moving her through a series of quick vocal exercises until she’d felt centered; when she took the stage a short time later, it was almost as though she could hear his voice in her ear, reminding her to breathe, and so she did. 

She would sing for him that night--for their hard work, for the time he’d devoted to her, and for the feelings for her maestro that she’d recently discovered in herself. Paris could borrow her voice for the evening, but in the end, it would always be for him.

When the curtain came down that night on the final act, Christine was overcome, staggering with the weight of all that had transpired.

“My dear girl, you are a star!” exclaimed François, the baritone, as he scooped her up and swung her around. Christine laughed in giddiness, dizzy as he released her, and when the curtain rose again for their bows, and her arms were suddenly laden with flowers, she swooned. 

It was too much! 

The lights and the people calling her name, the roses raining down upon her, it was simply too much for her to bear. Just as darkness swallowed her, as the curtain was lowered at last, she wondered if Erik was there to witness their triumph. 

When she came to, she was in her dressing room, a physician was attending her, and the stage manager was attempting to beat back the throng of people who were crowded into the small peach-colored room.

“For pity’s sake, get these people out of here!” the doctor was exclaiming. “The poor girl is overheated, and none of these busybodies need to be in this room at the moment!”

Christine wanted them gone, wanted all of them gone. This was her exclusive sanctuary, her private place that she shared with Erik, and she didn’t want anyone else here to taint the memories of the secrets and sighs that took place within. 

Least of all, the Vicomte de Chagny.

Christine had heard his voice, ringing over the others, demanding entrance. _Demanding_! She feigned illness longer than necessary, until the crowd of people had been pushed from the room, until none remained except for the doctor, Monsieur Gabriel, Victoire, the managers...and the Vicomte, she noted sourly.

“Christine, you said you needed to speak with me urgently?” the raven-haired ballerina questioned with a raised brow.

“Yes...yes, but it is a _ladies_ issue, and I’m afraid I haven’t been allowed single moment of privacy this day,” Christine wavered, raising her chin defiantly towards the cluster of men.

“Hmph. You’d assume that _gentlemen_ would know better,” Victoire sniffed. “We shall catch up tomorrow then.”

Monsieur Gabriel was the next to leave, sputtering that he only wanted to make sure their stand-in diva was fit to perform the following night. The managers insisted that their intention was the same, and congratulated her on a triumphant debut.

“And _I_ am here to escort Mademoiselle to supper,” the Vicomte announced with a wide smile. The managers laughed gaily, and looked at Christine pointedly. “I must fetch my hat, and you must dress for supper...two minutes, Lotte!”

When the door had finally clicked shut, leaving her in silence, Christine’s shoulders had slumped. She was drained after such a whirlwind of a day, and the last thing she wanted was to have to suffer through supper with her childhood playmate.   
_He barely even questioned if I felt well enough to go to supper, let alone if I wanted to! Didn’t consider that I might need to rest_! She gave a little sigh in distress and closed her eyes miserably. 

While prone to daydreaming, Christine had never been the sort of girl to pine away foolishly after every man who crossed her path, had never wasted hours away thinking about snagging a husband...her daydreams had been of the stage, of music. She felt more than a bit foolish, for now that she’d achieved her dream and had triumphed on the stage, she wished for nothing more than a husband to sweep her into his arms protectively, taking her home to a quiet sanctuary of music and his warm, velvet voice.

“The insolence of youth, assuming the right to all in their path...if that _boy_ thinks he can…well, let us not worry about him. He is but a gnat. An annoyance, nothing more.”

When the very voice she was foolishly pining for, Erik’s voice, came from behind her as a hiss of composed, cold fury when it spoke over her shoulder, Christine shivered. This was not how her daydream went, not at all. 

In an instant the cold moment had passed, and he moved to where she lay.

“You gave me quite a fright, my dearest.” Infinitely warmer now, Erik knelt at her side, gazing down on her with rapturous concern. “The angels wept tonight, my dear. You were a triumph. Are you very tired, my Christine?”

“Oh, I am dead,” she moaned, feeling at last that everything had been righted in the world. _This_ was how she was meant to exit the stage---to the peacefulness of her dressing room, to Erik’s quiet, devoted care. “I sang for you alone tonight. I gave you my soul and I am dead.”

Both of their heads raised when a jaunty whistle could be heard receding down the hall. _The Vicomte_ , she thought with dread. He would be back in no time at all. Christine turned back to Erik with a pleading look, but he was staring past her, at some fixed point on the wall. She watched closely as he swallowed hard several times, his jaw working in silence, before seeming to come to some decision with a nod. 

“Come, my dear. You need to eat, and then to rest.”

.  
.

The feather bed she awoke in was infinitely more comfortable than any bed she could remember sleeping in, and Christine stretched contentedly for a moment, her mind still hazy with sleep. The bedding she was swathed in was luxurious; the whole _room_ was luxurious, she realized, looking around slowly. 

Gleaming, dark paneled wood was offset by shimmery, pale blue damask wallpaper with silver gilting; a little writing desk over near the door had a stack of creamy stationary, a massive armoire stood on the wall opposite her bed. The vanity table was laden with cut crystal bottles and jars of creams and pomades and perfumes, a beautiful silver hand mirror and hairbrush there as well. Christine felt as though she had slipped through a crack in reality and awoken in the boudoir of a queen. 

There was a bone deep sense of satisfaction within her that left her feeling loose limbed and sleepy, and a slipperiness between her thighs. Christine knew without question that she'd been pleasured again.

_Erik_.

She was in Erik's house, she realized suddenly, dropping back onto the mound of fluffy pillows as memories of last night finally came flooding back to her. Erik had been in her dressing room, had rescued her from supper with the Vicomte, had fed her a lavish meal, had sung with her, before he'd…

Her thoughts broke off on a blush as she remembered the actions of the previous night. Erik had held her in the crook of his arm as he sang to her, had caressed her breasts through the frills of her dressing gown, had slipped his fingers into the pulsing wetness between her legs...no, that wasn't quite right, she corrected. 

She had _led_ his hand beneath her dressing gown.   
Had led his hand to where she wanted to be touched, had sighed in satisfaction when he did so...Christine felt her whole face redden when she remembered how wanton she’d acted. 

When Erik had pulled her to her feet in her dressing room, the sudden movement after laying prone had made her head swim. There was a sudden rush of cold air, and Christine felt dizziness overwhelm her, before she spun into darkness once more. When she’d woken again, she was once again reclining on a divan, although she knew instantly that she was no longer in her dressing room. 

The room was warm and red, the walls lined in books, a crackling fire in the hearth. The piano on the other side of the room was adorned with decorative scrolling woodwork, and Christine found herself sitting up slowly, if only to be closer to such a beautiful instrument. She rose to her feet, the heat of the room warming her cheeks, and had barely taken two steps when Erik’s warm voice sounded behind her.

“Easy, my dear. We don't want you becoming dizzy again.”

Christine turned towards his voice, the twining tendrils of it curling around her. She was in Erik’s home. _Her_ future home. She felt a smile spread across her face at how _right_ it felt.

“I’m feeling quite well, Erik, thank you. Although I wouldn’t mind a glass of water, if it wouldn’t be an inconvenience?”

His hand was at her waist then, hovering a breath away from actually touching her, leading her into an adjoining room where a sumptuous looking meal was spread across a table. 

“You’ll have more than just a glass of water. Come, sit...you must eat and regain your strength, Christine.”

She’d chattered as she ate, telling him about the hysteria of the day in between bites of roast duck and spinach soufflé, prawns and herbed potatoes. Christine had never had such an extensive array of food set before her, and like a child in a sweet shop, she wanted to try a bit of everything. Erik didn’t eat, but sat there listening to her, sipping slowly from a glass of the sweet golden wine he'd served them. He seemed amused by her retelling of the days events, and she had flushed in happiness, unused to having someone hanging on her every word, as his lips quirked up in their unique way.

Erik smiled like a man completely unused to the sensation, Christine come to realize some weeks earlier. His lips didn’t quite know what to do with themselves, it seemed to her, as if the act of smiling itself was a foreign one to him. She’d wondered about the life he must have led, when she’d first noticed this little peculiarity, watching as his lips curved up slightly on the right, twitching in amusement on the left. 

She knew Erik was two decades older than her, at the very least, and had lived at various points of his life all over the world. It had seemed exotic and exciting to her, the few times he’d indulged her with stories from far-off lands that he’d visited, but seeing his mouth struggle with the simple act of smiling had tugged at her heart; made her wonder how lonely he’d been, if his travels had been completed in solitude. Erik had an almost regal bearing, but his eyes sometimes seemed so very sad...his crooked little grin had become terribly dear to her, Christine realized, deciding she wanted to make it appear on his face as often as she was able.

“It’s getting to be quite late, my dear...perhaps it’s best for you to retire.”

His words startled her, and she realized she’d trailed off in her story, focused as she was watching his mouth. Christine felt a rush of warmth to her cheeks, thinking about Erik's thin lips and how they might feel trailing down her neck...whispering over her breasts...she shivered, unable to ignore the way her nipples tightened beneath her thin chemise at the thought. 

_In how many different ways_ …

She was not ready to retire, she decided.

Christine had been mortified at first, when Erik had led her to the dining room, realizing she was still in her frilly white dressing gown, with little more than her corset and chemise underneath. The dressers had been instructed to quickly remove her from the heavily beaded gown she wore in the act four finale, leaving her in naught but her underpinnings under her dressing gown when the doctor had attended her. She’d been appalled when she realized she’d been so scandalously dressed in front of all those who’d pressed into her dressing room when she’d fainted, how inappropriately dressed she was for their dinner, for how she must have appeared to Erik, dressed as impeccably as he always was in a perfectly tailored formal suit...

_Now_ though…

It was wicked to think it, but she was glad for her lack of clothing.

“Not yet...will you sing for me, Erik? Please?”

He had indulged her, as he always did. Christine pressed herself against him as his glorious voice wrapped around her, pulling his arms around her, joining him for a duet, then another. As they sang, the tips of his long, elegant fingers had gently caressed the tender skin of her throat, causing her to tip her head back, giving him full access to the long white column. When he'd sung her a tender air about love and surrender, the hand at her waist had dragged slowly up her body. When his broad palm moved over her breast, Christine had placed her own hand over his, keeping it there, silently encouraging him to squeeze and caress her. 

The room they were in, the same she’d woken in earlier, was cozy with its deep red walls and dark wood; the warm fire still crackled in the hearth, and standing there in the crook of Erik’s arm, secure in his embrace, made Christine feel as though they were the small, spinning figures in a jewel-toned music box. There was sense of dreaminess, of _rightness_...being here with Erik didn’t feel like something dishonorable, it felt like a homecoming. Having his hands upon her didn’t feel like a sin...it felt like a sacrament. Remembering her state of dress, she tugged the low neckline of her chemise until his stroking fingers caught on her pebbled nipple.

Her breathy moan was echoed by Erik's deep groan as he rolled the firm little bud between his fingers, cupping the weight of her breast. When Erik squeezed the firm peak, Christine instinctively rolled her hips back, seeking and finding a familiar hardness there. Erik's responding grunt sent a surge of power through her; an electric current that went directly to that spot between her legs, and she knew where she wanted him to touch her next.

Tugging the tie of her dressing gown open, Christine guided his hand to the slit in her silky white drawers, leaning against him with a sigh when his teasing fingers at long last moved into the warm wetness between her legs. She was past caring if this was a sin, past caring how wanton her behavior might have been. It didn’t feel sinful, there in his arms, she thought; it felt wonderful and right, as though she were exactly where she was meant to be.

Erik's voice was a sensual spill of dark chocolate at her neck, deep and hungry sounding. Christine couldn't understand any of the words he said, didn't recognize the language in which he spoke, but she assumed that his deep, growling tone, coupled with what his hand was doing between her legs meant it was absolutely filthy, and she thrilled at the sound of it.

Christine began to press back against the hardness at her back rhythmically, remembering her trick from that previous lesson, rocking like a wave. Her hips rolled; into his hand, then into that burning hardness, over and over. Her pulse thrummed at the control she felt she had over the situation, as Erik had begun to groan in time to her own breathy moans. When he’d stiffened behind her, his arm had wrapped around her middle, holding tightly against him as his whole body seemed to convulse, jerking against her backside, and moaning low and long into her neck. 

Christine was certain she was holding him up at that moment, and was glad to do so. Wasn't that what a good marriage was about? Holding each other up in times of need? She’d rasped her nails across the back of the hand that gripped her waist, once Erik had seemed to steady, and he’d chuckled darkly, the sound sending another bolt of excitement directly to that electric spot between her legs, that spot he was no longer paying attention to.

“My sweet vixen Christine,” he crooned into her neck, and she’d flushed at that, wondering if that was truly what she was. Erik hadn’t given her much opportunity to dwell upon it, for he’d scooped her up like a bride and brought her to a lovely, feminine bedroom.

When he’d deposited her on the bed, Christine felt a thrill of fear and excitement race up her spine. Erik’s golden eyes were like burning pits of desire as he gazed down on her rapaciously. 

_The sound of you being had like a back alley harlot_

She didn’t care, she thought as she writhed on the plush coverlet as he turned away; the fire Erik had ignited between her thighs with his touch hadn’t yet been extinguished, and she wanted more. She didn’t feel like a harlot, even as she twisted with need...she felt loved and desired and well cared for. That wasn’t something harlots could say, was it? She didn’t care if he took her that night, they could go straight to the mairie in the morning. He could have her...she was already his.

He returned to the room several moments later, and his evening suit was gone, Christine noted. She didn’t learn what he wore under the long black dressing gown, for before she could even shift her position, Erik was grasping her by the hips. She gasped when he pulled her across the bedding, the gasp turning to a surprised, delighted laugh when he released and rolled down her stocking. 

When the first stocking was secured around her head as a blindfold, she sighed in annoyed acceptance that morphed into a sigh of content when Erik’s long fingers stroked her bare legs. When her wrists were bound with the second stocking, she'd gasped.

“I fear your blood is simply too heated to be trusted, my little minx Christine,” he murmured with another dark chuckle. “Let your Erik put out this fire that plagues you, my dearest.”

“ _Please_ , Erik,” she heard herself moan shamelessly. She would have been shocked, would have been horrified to hear herself like this normally, but at that moment, the only thing that seemed to matter was relief from the pulsing heat that throbbed in her center.

His cool fingertips touched down on her collarbone, eliciting a squeak of surprise from her. Though his touch was cool, his digits left fire in their wake as glided up her throat, spreading around her jaw, before slowly working their way back down, with a feather-weight pressure, to the valley between her breasts. When the lacy frill of her dressing gown was moved aside, exposing her breast to the open air, Christine tensed, waiting for the cool touch of his fingers to roll the hardened bud again. Instead, the hot wetness of his tongue met her nipple and she released a shuddering breath. Christine felt her back arch up under his touch, heard a high whine come from her mouth when Erik sucked her rosy-pink bud into the hot cavern of his own. 

His hand flattened against her bound wrists, pinning them back to the bed. Christine realized she’d must have raised them, was reaching in vain for him, realized he was right--she couldn’t be trusted. 

She continued to whimper and writhe beneath him, quite liking the feel of his body above hers, as he moved to fully free her bosom from the chemise. He seemed to be holding himself slightly away from her, and she realized that was why she was reaching out for him--she wanted to crush him against her, wanted to feel his skin pressed to hers, wanted him to feel her thunderous heartbeat. Erik lavished attention upon her breasts, caressing their weight with the hand that was not still pinned to hers, licking and sucking on her hardened nipples while managing to barely touch her with anything other than his mouth, until she thought she might crawl out of her skin. 

At last he lifted himself from her, and she let out a little gasp at the sudden burst of cold air where his body was no longer. The heat between them warmed Christine to her very soul, she thought, preparing herself to feel him lower atop her once more. _It would hurt, the girls all said it hurts terribly the first time_. She knew Erik would take care to hurt her as little as possible, would be tender with how he cared for her after, and somehow that knowledge made her less afraid. 

The hot wetness of Erik's mouth alighted on her ankle, then, making her gasp once more. She was reminded that with her vision gone, she seemed to _feel_ so much more. His mouth continued to move over her foot, sucked on each of her toes, which should not have felt as _good_ as it did, but that certainly didn’t stop her from crying out in delight as he did so.

His hot mouth kissed its way up to her knees, intentionally tickling her in that soft spot behind, making her cry out again, this time with a shriek of unrefined laughter that seemed to melt around his answering dark chuckle. Christine heard herself laugh and sigh and gasp, and when his tongue at last pressed into her hot center, she knew this could not be a sin, not when it felt like communion with the heavens.

“My beautiful Christine,” he rasped, pulling apart her legs. “No emperor has received so fair a feast.”

Christine thought of very little as Erik lashed his tongue against that little pearl, other than _more_ , keeping her bound hands fisted in the bedding above her head. Erik seemed to know exactly how to please her in this way again, and she found herself arching in ecstacy and crying out his name over and over. 

She was so overwhelmed with sensation, was ascending to the crest of that great wave so rapidly, she could barely form thought but somehow one thought managed to creep through the haze of pleasure. 

She wondered what the Vicomte de Chagny had done when he’d returned to her empty dressing room; wondered if he’d be so quick to forgive her if he knew she was laid out on a luxurious bed in her snowy-white dressing gown like a sacrificial virgin, her legs over the shoulders of a man who was lavishing attention on her womanhood with his fingers and tongue.

_I don’t care_ , she thought, just before her vision was wiped in a bolt of white light. Erik was kneading her breast with his free hand; the other had a finger curled into her entrance, moving shallowly, as he sucked at that little nub of electric nerves until she was shaking apart, crying out his name until blackness swept over her.

.  
.

Christine remembered the events of the previous evening with a flush. She needed to get up and go find him. They needed to talk about the future right that second, she needed to go home and put on her best dress and they could go to the mairie and be done with it. He would bring her home to this lovely little house and make her his. _Banns_ , she thought suddenly. They would need to post banns. _All the better reason to act today_ , she decided. No sense in putting it off. 

Christine moved to the armoire on the far wall, hoping there might at least be a dressing gown within that would cover her a bit more modestly than what she currently wore. She realized as soon as she surveyed the armoire’s contents that her nicest dress at home would be a pile of rags compared to the queen’s bounty contained within. Walking dresses, evening dresses, tea dresses, all with matching shoes or slippers; gloves and hats and brooches, underpinnings folded with fragrant lavender, sturdy boots, cloaks, and a lovely blue parasol.

Her eyes filled with tears when she considered the time and expense he must have gone through to procure these things for her, for they were unquestionably for her; the dresses were all cut in her size, the shoes a perfect fit, everything was done in colors that flattered her tone. He had prepared for her, knowing this would be her home. Christine took time to dress carefully, dabbed on a bit of perfume from one of the ornate glass bottles on the vanity, arranged her hair neatly. It would please him to see her in one of the dresses he’d chosen for her, she was certain.

She was able to hear him playing, heard the bombastic sounds of a pipe organ blaring through another part of the house. It was a curious house, Christine thought, as she crept down the hallway, possessing of no windows. She couldn’t quite remember how they’d come to be here last night...she’d fainted in her dressing room and had woken in the music room here in his home. It wasn’t important, she decided, for suddenly there he was, seated at the organ, enthralled with his own playing. 

She smiled softly, wondering how fortune had conspired to send her such a man, who lived and breathed music as she did, who made her feel cherished and special and loved...she would tell him, would tell him right now.

First though...first she needed to do away with that silly mask. It didn’t matter, she’d already decided. She didn’t care if he was ugly, she only cared about the way he made her feel, and the way he treated her. It had occurred to her, as she lay abed thinking about the previous night, that Erik had never kissed her. It seemed such a little thing, a kiss...his lips were cool and soft, and she knew how they felt all over her body, but not on her lips. She would strip away that mask, and tell him that it didn’t matter before she kissed him, kissed him properly. 

Erik was so absorbed in his playing he didn’t pay any mind when she crossed the room to him, still smiling. 

This, she knew, her heart bursting with excitement and happiness, would be the most important day of her life, the turning point, the day she took control of her destiny. _Nothing could go wrong on this day_ , Christine thought, as she reached out for the mask.


End file.
